Godfrey agreed to a slow proceeding. Let’s start with a call. Tunde – who said, laughing, on the phone to Karl, ‘Ah! I feel I know you, just call me Uncle T!’ – was in Italy on business and happy to detour to London – his UK visa from a trip earlier in the year still valid – introduce himself, make his sincerity known and hopefully carry Karl swiftly to the fatherland. Sometime soon.
What turned Godfrey around wasn’t just Karl’s I can knock you sideways with your own game, any time. It was the lot. Sandwiched between Uncle T’s excitement and Karl’s calculated reasoning, it was difficult to get a straight thought in. Godfrey’s enthusiasm was so yeah sure that makes sense if not stupidly risky and I don’t know that man from Adam. Anything could happen. Anything. And Godfrey wouldn’t be able to do shit about it.
But then Uncle T came to London and told Godfrey how he had stayed in touch with Rebecca. And how Rebecca had tried to cut even those ties. From day one. Tunde told Godfrey how he had begged Rebecca to let Karl’s father at least know about the child. Even if she didn’t want to speak to him because that much was clear. Always said ‘the child’ until Godfrey corrected him:
‘Karl. Just say Karl. Please.’
And Tunde startled, his body stopping for a moment, the arms and hands left frozen in the air. Then realising, laughing.
‘I never knew. Even that, she never said. It was only the child, if she answered at all.’
‘First me alone,’ Godfrey had said to Karl. Suss it out. He and Tunde had spoken for three hours straight. Top to bottom. Gone over the details, verified the security measures. You had to. This was bloody this century, not no trusting 1960s. If they had been trusting. At the end of the mega-interview the uncle had said ‘Godfrey,’ extending his hand, ‘it will be OK.’ Godfrey almost thought it was a genetic thing. The truss me gene.
Uncle T wanted nothing from them. And he had not miraculously inherited/been given/made 200 million (of any currency that was impressive, thus not naira), which were now sitting in his account needing rescue, urgently.
Instead, Tunde came with a picture of Rebecca with Karl’s father, taken a bit more than eighteen years ago: a snapshot, a small bar in Lagos. The two sitting under an aluminium roof that shaded the few plastic tables and chairs. Behind them, a guy on a barbecue – ‘He’s making suya,’ Tunde said – giving his thumbs up and grinning. Tunde also brought Rebecca’s short replies to his letters, always on postcards that showed some variation on the Queen, or a similarly monarchy-type motive. Always ironic, the choice of card, always cryptic, the writing, always short, never mentioning anything specific about Karl whatsoever. Fine. We’re well, thanks. Baby is fine. Child is fine. Mother is fine. Now eff off already. Last thing implied. Please do not send money, don’t need any, we’re fine. Will not use it. As you returned it the last time I sent it back I’m keeping it aside now. Come for it when you’re ready. Yes, secondary school now. Fine. Fine. Fine.
Godfrey sat for a long time with all the cards. Nineteen of them. The only reason she replied was because Tunde kept bullying her, which is what it said on one of the cards.
‘They call me the sentimental one.’ Tunde was smiling now. ‘And wonder how my business is as successful as it is. Sentimental people don’t make money, they say; they make soppy lovers.’ He laughed, throwing his head back. ‘Well I cannot, or better, I should not, speak on that part. But we make good business partners. We are loyal. We don’t forget you. Sooner or later one big fish or another is hooked. They want someone reliable. Who cares. Either to do a good job, or about them. If there is a common interest, it turns out one can even make some good money.’
He stood in front of Godfrey, who was still staring at Rebecca’s cards. At the photo. Both were quiet.
Uncle T came back the next day. Karl and Godfrey together this time. Uncle T’s smile was so proud Karl had to look away. When they sat on Godfrey’s couch Godfrey studied Uncle T’s face. Open. Excited. He was fully present, facing Karl from the armchair. Karl was examining his fingernails.
‘Well, something to drink would be good; where are my manners. Tunde, can I get you a coffee?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ Never taking his eyes off the young man in front of him.
Godfrey left and they could hear him running water in the kitchen.
‘I wrote to Rebecca.’ Uncle T’s voice was low. This was something between them. He had Karl’s attention.
‘I mean your mother.’ He took out the postcards and laid them on the table in front of Karl. Karl had heard about these from Godfrey. ‘These are her replies. She wasn’t, how do you say it? Feeling me that much, it seems.’ He wasn’t trying to be funny. Karl could see that. ‘But I was feeling you. I tried, Karl, I tried.’
‘Here,’ Tunde said, and brought out more than nineteen, a whole lot more, sheets of paper.
‘I kept my letters as well. For you.’
Karl’s hands reached for the small bundle. ‘I knew she wasn’t giving them to you. I have copies of all of them.’
Tunde tapped his hand on Karl’s shoulder and followed Godfrey into the kitchen. Karl stared at the paper in his lap. Picked one up.
14 December 1994
Dear Rebecca,
I hope this finds you well.
I am deeply saddened that you are not returning my calls. Adebanjo … He is not the most reliable man. I have tried to warn you. Please do not think we are the same.
The baby must have arrived by now. Kindly send a picture. I cannot wait to meet my niece or nephew. Please allow me to visit. I understand that you will most likely not return to Nigeria but if there is only the slightest chance, allow me to be of assistance.
I enclose $100 but will send more next month.
How are you?
Eagerly awaiting your reply,
Tunde
It was the shortest letter.
Rebecca’s reply was on a postcard with the queen waving at crowds during a procession. She was smiling and holding her handbag in the other hand. On her head an abomination in purple. Who chose those hats?
T.
We’re all very fine. No assistance needed. Your money is in an account I opened here. Please let me know how to return it.
R.
Uncle T had written about his business. About the country. About his imagined relationship, the relationship he wanted to have with Karl. The Karl he had never met. The Karl he didn’t know of. He wrote about the time Rebecca had spent in Nigeria. About England. About what he heard in the news. But mostly he asked, always asked: how is the baby? When can we meet?
12 September 1995
Dear Rebecca,
This is to inform you that I am coming to London! Kindly send your address. I will arrive on 16 October and stay …
The next letter was posted in London. From London to London. It started with ‘Since you refused to see me …’
It was difficult to see the writing now that Karl’s eyes were leaking. Uncle T was at the door but turned around again and complimented Godfrey, who was behind him, on an award that hung in the hallway. It was a five-a-side fun-league win from three years ago. Uncle T aahed and oohed his way through, asking details about how many teams, where did they play. Etc. Karl wiped his face and folded the letters carefully. Uncle T and Godfrey entered with cups in hand. Godfrey handed Karl a glass of Coke, surprised. Uncle T said nothing, just sat down, studying Karl in a friendly sort of way. The silence. Uncle T leaned into it. Metaphorically speaking. There was no awkwardness. It just was. You couldn’t always pick up words to flourish the unsayable. It would be a waste. Too much. Sometimes moments had to be allowed to be themselves. To breathe or not, to be bearable or not. You couldn’t always change it.
Karl’s head was still low. Letters in hand, postcards on top.
‘I need to make some calls,’ Uncle T said. ‘Maybe I can meet you, both of you, for dinner later?’
Godfrey searched for Karl’s eyes. Karl nodded, head unmoved.
Uncle T left the next day and went back to his business dealings in Italy. Manufacturing new shea butter products. Expanding his business portfolio.